


So Bright Sometimes

by holtzmanns



Series: Holiday Collaborations [5]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, a couple dumb exes pretending not to be exes, casual confusing feelings and tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:32:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzmanns/pseuds/holtzmanns
Summary: Brock agrees to go to Florida with Jose for Christmas after finding out Jose's family thinks they're still dating.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Series: Holiday Collaborations [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558447
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	So Bright Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Lights Up" by Harry Styles.  
A huge thank you to Writ for being a wonderful beta<3

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Jose’s not really looking at him as he asks the question, much more interested in fiddling with the zipper of his suitcase. 

“Yeah. Course. We made these plans months ago. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your mom, right?” Brock tries to plaster on a smile, one that’s convincing enough.

It’s not like Brock has a choice, really. The way Jose’s mom had texted him in excitement after hearing that he was coming for Christmas, about how she’d even make the pie that Brock had enjoyed eating last time, and that she couldn’t wait to see him and hug him again? 

Brock hadn’t had the heart to tell her the truth. Neither had Jose, on his part. 

And so here they are, sitting amongst the holiday crowds at a terminal in LAX, a flight to Tampa lying in-between the next two days. Two days of pretending that he and Jose are still together, that they hadn’t broken up two months ago. That everything is still okay.

“Why didn’t you tell her?” 

Brock’s already asked Jose the question a few times. He’d first asked it when Jose had texted him in a panic a week ago, begging him to tag along to his family’s Christmas celebrations because he’d conveniently forgotten to tell his mom that they weren’t together anymore. He’d asked it again when Jose had sent him a plane ticket, saying that he wasn’t about to make him pay. But Brock still hasn’t gotten a straight answer out of him just yet. 

“She’d hurl the chancla across the country so hard at me for letting you go that I’d feel it all the way here.” Jose lets out a bitter laugh as he says it, one that Brock knows is because Jose isn’t the one that let him go, not really. Not that it matters anymore. 

“Think of it this way.” Jose turns towards him, looks up at him finally, with those big brown eyes that still pull Brock back in no matter how much he doesn’t want them to. “You’re saving me from an ass whooping. Least you could do.” 

Brock thinks back to when they’d originally made their holiday plans. When it was September and Christmas seemed far away in a snow globe, and they were happy and in lo-

Anyway.

Back then, Brock coming to Jose’s for Christmas had made sense. His own mom and sister and nieces and nephews were going on an all inclusive to the Bahamas, and he hadn’t wanted to spend Christmas at yet another hotel. He’d wanted to be somewhere home.

Back in September, the idea of going to Jose’s family’s house for Christmas had felt like it could have been home.

Now, it almost feels like a cruel joke to be spending Christmas with Jose and his family. Having to pretend to still be dating Jose, to still have feelings for him, feels like playing with fire. 

Especially because part of him won’t be acting, not really. 

The part of Brock that had agreed to go visit Jose’s family in the first place. The part of him that’s okay with it now, okay with putting his arm around Jose, hold him close near the fireplace. The part of him that wants to have the chance to pull Jose close under the mistletoe that they both mysteriously end up underneath. 

The small part of him that wishes that things were simple, that they were still together. The part of him that wants to go back in time, erase the way they’d drifted away from each other, victims of their busy schedules and insecurities. 

An announcement overhead calls out for their gate, and Brock pops his Xanax before they even reach their seats on the plane. 

* * *

“Wake up. Bitch, wake up.”

Brock rubs the sleep from his eyes, Jose’s relentless tapping against his shoulder clearing the haze from his eyes that had been present since the flight take off. 

“We there yet?” Brock looks out the window, but it’s cloudy enough that he can’t see much past the mist and fog that turn the clouds grey.

“Almost. Flight’s gonna land in ten. Sitting next to you on a plane is like sitting next to a damn corpse. I ain’t never been this bored in my life.” Jose gestures to the broken screen in front of him. “The tiny TV on the seat didn’t even work!”

Brock snorts. “Sorry to leave you to your own devices.”

“You better be. My phone died an hour ago and ever since then I’ve been tryna watch the screen of the lady in front of us. She ain’t even got subtitles on.”

Brock cocks his head, looking at Jose’s petulant expression. “Why didn’t you just hook your headphones up to my screen?”

Jose pauses. “Oh.”

Brock can’t help the laugh that bubbles up on his lips, one that Jose’s so effortlessly talented at pulling out of him, no matter what they are. He’s never bored with him, never feels like Jose’s a bland person. Because Jose’s the most interesting person he knows in his life.

He’s already met Annabel back in LA, knows that Jose’s a carbon copy of her. A cut and paste of his mother, his wonderfully dramatic mother who is somehow more glamorous than either of them can ever hope to be even when they’re in drag. It’s easy to see the way Jose’s personality is reflected in his mother, and it makes Brock wonder about Jose’s other family members. 

He supposes he won’t have to wait too long to find out.

* * *

Jose barely lifts his fist to knock on the door before Annabel’s ushering both of them inside, then into a hug with an arm around each of their shoulders. Brock can’t help the smile on his face when Annabel lets go of them, tugs on both of their shirts to straighten them and get rid of the creases. 

“Flight okay?” 

“Just fine, ma.” Jose has a grin on his face that Brock only sees when he’s with his mom, an easy smile that coincides with rapid conversations in Spanish and endless hugs. 

“Did you eat?” Annabel’s raising an eyebrow at both of them, tugging on both of their hands to bring them to the kitchen before they’ve even dropped their suitcases.

The house is the same as Brock remembers it, from the summer when he came to visit with Jose. The kitchen island with a giant bowl of fruit, the windows that opened up onto a big backyard. The fridge scattered with pictures of Jose and his brother from when they were kids, ones which still make Brock’s heart twist in his chest.

Annabel passes them both plates of food before either of them answer the question, and pushes on their shoulders until they shuffle over to the kitchen table. 

“Mami, don’t worry-”

“Eat anyway.” Annabel cuts Jose off with a wave of her hand, ignoring his grumbling and Brock’s not complaining, shovelling the food down. He can’t help it, because her cooking’s _ good. _

“Look, Brock’s being good and eating. Always knew you were my favourite.” Annabel ruffles his hair and Brock can’t help but crack up at the betrayed look that’s lining Jose’s features.

_ “Ma!” _

* * *

“Gonna give you both your old bedroom, Jose. I switched your bunk bed for a queen so now I can actually have people over and not have them sleep in a teenage boy room.” Annabel moves out of the way so that they can drop their luggage in the room, the blue walls the only indicator that the room used to belong to Jose. 

The furniture is simple, nondescript, surfaces clear of any indicators of personality. Brock tries to picture what the room would have looked like ten or so years ago - posters of Mariah, maybe Jennifer Lopez on the walls? Jose lip syncs enough of her songs for it to be realistic.

Jose, for his part, huffs. “I’m twenty-seven, I’m not a teenager.”

“You sure act like it sometimes.” Annabel pats Jose’s cheek, making him mumble under his breath, and it’s all Brock can do not to laugh.

He loves watching their dynamic. The back and forth quips, the light teasing. He can see how it’s shaped Jose, how it influences his actions when he’s Vanjie. 

Jose’s mom is so different from his own, the holiday homecoming not quite the same. Brock’s mom would set up his old room too, yes, but pepper in polite questions about work, catch him up on how his siblings are doing before they’d come over the next day. She’d talk about how church has been and he’d get the familiar waves of anxiety in his chest that would have nothing to do with her, but everything to do with his own relationship to faith. All in all, a typical Christmas homecoming.

The Florida heat is a change, but a nice one. That is, until Annabel leaves, and he and Jose are left in the room with only one bed between them.

It shouldn’t be weird. They’d shared a bed for months up until recently with no trouble at all. Mind you, they were together, but-

Brock tries not to think about that time, when Jose curled into his side oh so perfectly and his little breaths as he slept would tickle at Brock’s bare skin. How right it felt, how Jose was warm and soft and somehow managed to calm him down, bring his heart rate down until both of theirs were in sync.

They’re not like that anymore. 

Even though they’re pretending to be.

“You take the bed. I got the floor and some cushions.” Jose’s already moving to tug one of the blankets off of the bed, grabbing a pillow, and Brock wrinkles his nose.

“What? No. This is your house. You take the bed.” He doesn’t want to make Jose feel uncomfortable in his own old room, doesn’t want to make him feel like things are off.

Even though they are, and have been since the two of them decided to pretend to still be together. 

“Yeah, and you’re the guest, I ain’t making you sleep on the floor. my mom would whoop my ass if she walked in and saw that.” Jose shudders and Brock can almost imagine the sight of Annabel’s angry yelling. 

“Like she wouldn’t whoop mine either if she saw you on the floor.”

Jose pauses. “Good point.”

“Look.” Brock sighs, because he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor himself, but he doesn’t want Jose to, either. “We’re both adults. We can share a bed.”

Jose bites his lip. “True. But no funny business.” He waggles his finger at Brock before dropping the pillow and blanket back on the bed. “I’m watching.”

Brock snorts. “As long as if you don’t feel me up, either.”

_ “Bitch-” _

* * *

Brock had severely underestimated just how difficult it would be to share a bed with Jose. 

Jose only has two modes of sleeping - sprawling out or curling up into a ball, his body able to take up either an entire bed or a mere corner of it without any sort of in-between. Brock notices from the way that the sheets keep being pulled off of him that Jose remains a notorious blanket thief, cocooned in the comforters and sheets that cover the queen-sized bed. 

But the way Jose’s buried under the covers, the way his arm is sprawled out and poking into Brock’s side, aren’t the difficult parts of sharing a bed with him. He can take those.

It’s more the fact that Jose is his ex.

Sharing a bed with an ex should be a capital offense, in Brock’s mind. Having Jose right there, right _ there, _but not being able to wrap his arms around him without fear of overstepping or making Jose uncomfortable. They’re so close but so far because of barriers that he doesn’t quite understand himself.

Not that he still wants to.

Does he?

Regardless of the way his mind is ping ponging back and forth, it’s a test of his self control. One that he’s going to fail, somehow. 

Brock hates tests.

The way that Jose’s lightly snoring, his soft breaths ticking the pillow under his cheek feel like a taunt to Brock. Like they’re suddenly back to the summer, back to being together and keeping it a secret and feeling so giggly, so excited to keep their secret between each other. Like when Jose had come to visit him in Nashville and snuggled in his sheets like he’d belonged there. 

Either way, being in the same bed as Jose again makes his stomach turn, because it’s not the same anymore. 

He debates heading to the bathroom and away from the way he feels like he’s burning up under the covers. Splashing some water on his face to clear his mind of pictures of Jose and what they used to be, but he knows there’s no point. Not when he’s going to be right beside the man who he’s trying to forget about. 

Brock counts the cracks in the ceiling, trying to will his mind to shut up long enough to drift off to sleep. But the memories flooding his brain ignore his conscious thoughts, distract him with images of nights spent laughing and dancing with Jose, days where they’d stayed in bed for hours just so that wouldn’t have to leave each others’ arms. When he and Jose had their own little world, one that wasn’t marred by baggage and differing expectations and drifting apart. Memories that had once brought Brock so much joy but now feel bitter, like they’re tainted by the emotional distance that has built up between them.

Jose, for his part, remains fast asleep, his lean body curled up against the wall. Brock doesn’t have to be a genius to realize that Jose had made a conscious effort to keep to himself before he had drifted off, respecting the unspoken barriers that have built up brick by brick. 

Except that it doesn’t last.

Brock keeps staring at the ceiling as the clock inches past 1:00, 2:00 a.m., and Jose slowly begins to inch closer, closer. Not consciously, his eyes still fluttered shut and his breaths deep. But eventually Jose’s leg swings over his own and it’s enough to make Brock’s heart flip over in his chest. Especially when Jose pairs it with bringing his head to rest on Brock’s shoulder, snuggling in close (like he used to, back then), the lingerings of his aftershave tickling Brock’s nose in a way that is oh so familiar. 

Brock’s frozen, because if he moves then Jose might wake up, and they’ll go back to how they are during the day, unspoken words an elephant in the room that they’re both trying desperately to avoid. But having Jose nestled in his side is...nice. He’s a familiar weight, one that Brock knows so well and that’s grounding to him, calming the fast beats of his heart, making him more tired. 

Jose nuzzles into his shoulder and Brock feels the mismatched pieces of his own chest put themselves back together, even when they should be telling him to run. 

He wraps an arm around Jose, holds him closer like he’s a precious metal that he doesn’t ever want to get rid of, because sleep comes easier when Jose’s tucked into his side, when his brain isn’t thinking about what ifs or things that make him spiral. 

Not when Jose’s gripping Brock’s shirt in his sleep like he’s his lifeline. 

* * *

The first thing that Brock notices when he wakes up the next morning is the warmth that radiates from Jose nestled beside him. His breath is steady against Brock’s neck, illuminated by the rays of sunlight that peek in through the window. 

It’s a position they haven’t been in for months, back when they’d taken the hotel rooms in nameless cities and visits to each other’s places for granted. Back when being curled up against each other had felt like the most natural action in the world, where their breaths would inevitably fall into sync, their chests rising and falling in tandem. 

Jose is Brock’s favourite weighted blanket, one who calms his heart down with the gentle flutter of his eyelids as he dreams and the small sighs he lets out against Brock’s skin. 

Brock can tell when Jose wakes up by the way his fingertips lift up to trace on Brock’s stomach, the way Jose looks up at him without saying anything. Jose’s touch is light, delicate, as if Jose is taking extra care to not burst the bubble between them. It brings a flush to Brock’s cheeks, makes his stomach stir, reminding him of months when they could do this whenever they’d wanted. 

But sharing a bed, sleeping with Jose tucked beside him, is too comfortable. It’s dangerous, a sword with jagged edges that has the potential to tug at Brock’s heart. The potential to ruin it, since his heart isn’t getting the message that this is all _ pretend _ , that they’re only _ pretending _to still be in love.

At least, Brock thinks they’re pretending. 

Brock’s eyes watch as the minutes tick by on the clock opposite Jose’s bed, when fifteen minutes turn into forty five. Brock can feel the inevitable creeping up on them with every passing second, the knowledge that they’ll soon have to get up and resume their act.

Brock wishes he could make it go away, stop the passage of time, go back to spending the whole day curled up together, just like they used to.

Brock also starts to wish he had never agreed to do this in the first place.

Jose’s movements stop when the clock strikes 9 a.m. There’s a slight hesitation as they untangle themselves from one another, pulling back limbs and sheets until all that’s left between them is a heavy silence in the cool air that threatens to smother them both.

Brock realizes that he needs to say something, as Jose’s retreating back heads towards the bathroom.

Tell Jose how he feels, how he still feels. Just how much he misses being together, how badly he craves the chance to relive the days when they were falling hard and fast, without a care in the world. How he isn’t pretending, how he can’t fake this kind of love. 

But Brock doesn’t. Instead, he grabs a bundle of clothes from his suitcase and starts to get dressed, desperately trying to repress the growing list of things he should say, but won’t.

* * *

Breakfast feels off.

Jose’s next to him, sitting close but not too close. Yet still close enough that Brock can feel the nervous energy radiating off of Jose’s body, see the way his leg is bouncing under the table. 

Annabel is none the wiser, dropping plates of omelettes in front of them despite the tension. Brock is grateful, really, when they start to eat. 

“These are amazing!” Brock can’t help it when the words slip from his mouth, feeling the blush grow on his face when he realizes that he’s still chewing his food. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You compliment my cooking, you’re in my good books.” Annabel winks at him and Brock feels the knot in his chest loosen a bit, feels a little less like he’s out of place. “Maybe you’ll take over from Jose as the favourite kid.”

“Hey!” Jose lets out his protest with his mouth still full of food too, and despite himself, Brock can’t hold back a laugh. “I bring a boy home for Christmas and you adopt him instead?” 

Annabel reaches out to ruffle Jose’s hair, affection in her eyes, and the little mutter under his breath that Jose lets out in response before shoving another bite in his mouth is so quintessentially him. The smile on Brock’s face doesn’t feel forced at all, feels natural and like he should be there, that being at his ex’s family home for Christmas is normal. 

Sort of. 

Brock and Jose clean up the dishes while Annabel goes upstairs, and Brock wants to say something over the hum of the faucet and the clinking of the dishes and the bubbles that rise higher and higher in the sink, he really does. Jose’s tongue is slightly poking out as he scrubs a pan, all focused and elbow deep in bubbles, and Brock is struck by how domestic everything feels, as he dries the dish in his hand. 

His brain keeps flashing back to this morning (Jose curled up on his chest, Jose’s arm across his body), it shouldn’t have happened because they’re exes, but at the same time?

Brock wants it to happen again, as much as he hates it.

But they also need to talk about it. Brock doesn’t want to keep pretending that everything is normal, that acting like they’re together is normal because it’s _ not_, not when he has to pretend to fake it. 

Jose hands him the last clean dish to dry with a flourish and a grin on his face and Brock’s heart stops for a second, with the force of Jose’s full attention and smile. It still blinds him, sometimes, if he isn’t careful. 

“We done. _ Finally_.” There’s a towel swung over Jose’s shoulder like he’s a chef and Brock is struck by just how cute he is.

“Jose, we gotta talk about-”

_ Ding-dong! _

The miniscule look of fear on Jose’s face from when Brock had opened his mouth disappears as he practically sprints towards the door to open it, and the yelling in the Cancel household increases by tenfold with the arrival of Jose’s extended family.

Brock sighs, plasters on a fake smile to hide his disappointment, as well as the nerves bubbling up in his chest over meeting Jose’s uncles and aunts and cousins and grandma. Every instinct in him is screaming to run, run out of the way of the hugs and raucous noises. But then Annabel pats his shoulder and sends him a look that’s somehow both reassuring and knowing all at once.

And it’s a bit better.

* * *

“We watched your Derma lip sync dance because Jose told us to-”

“_Demi_, Tia Carla, not Derma-”

“And you spun so fast? How did you not get dizzy?”

Brock lets out a laugh at Jose’s aunt’s expectant face, Jose beside him already having dropped his head in his hands. It’s easier than he thought, socializing with Jose’s relatives, when they’ve all given him a warm hug and smiles and somehow are less held back than his family at home. 

“I used to be a ballet dancer, which helps.” Brock shrugs. 

Jose’s aunt lights up and approximately three of Jose’s cousins groan, causing Brock’s eyebrows to raise. “What?”

“Tia Carla wanted us in ballet.” Jose’s cousin Luis sighs as he leans forward in his spot on the couch.

“She succeeded, for a few years, until we all got kicked out at the same time.” Gabriela, Luis’ sister, shrugs.

Brock turns towards Jose, who’s already shaking his head. “How?” 

Tia Carla lets out a _ hmph. _ “Because these monkeys wouldn’t stop fooling around in their dance classes and ruining it for the other good kids who were _ behaving _and their teacher said that the Cancel name could no longer turn the class into a circus.” 

Jose shrugs, lifting up his hands in surrender when Brock looks over at him. “Don’t look at me, I wasn’t a part of it. Just Tia Carla’s kids.” 

Jose’s aunt reaches out to pinch his cheek. “Though you would have been an adorable little dancer too.”

Jose scowls, swatting at her hand. “I’m already a dancer.”

“But not on your tiptoes-”

“Nah, that’s Brock’s domain.” Jose snickers and Brock sticks his tongue out at him, unable to hold himself back.

“You like my toes.” Brock wiggles his brows and Jose shoves his side, oblivious to all of the cousins looking at them in confusion. 

But Jose’s smiling as he scoffs, rolls his eyes, and so Brock is smiling too, because it feels so easy, so natural, so much like any normal conversation they have. “Shut up, you nasty.” 

“Y’all are cute together.” Gabriela’s words make the two of them freeze, Brock realizing that his arm has really woven itself around Jose’s shoulder, that Jose is tucked into his side the way they always used to sit.

Jose stiffens underneath him, but it’s like he’s fighting himself to stay there, to stay still and not blow their cover and make everything weird when they’re supposed to be acting. Supposed to be together. 

But Jose doesn’t move, and Brock doesn’t pull his arm back. They stay curled into each other, and maybe it’s because they’re selling an act, sure, but Brock can also feel the way Jose’s stiffness lessens over time, the way his head inches ever so slightly to rest on his shoulder.

Brock wishes they’d never have to get up from the couch.

* * *

It’s after dinner when Brock heads to the bathroom, his mind lightly buzzing and his stomach full and his ears ringing from the raucousness that had been the Cancel dinner table. Full of laughter and jokes and yelling and it’s so different from his own family’s dinner, but just as good, if not better, because Brock’s cheeks are hurting from how much he smiled the entire evening.

Most of the smiles had been directed at Jose, sure, but that’s something for Brock’s brain to ponder at a later time when he’s much more sober.

Brock loops past the living room on his way to the kitchen, Jose’s grandma already pulling out dessert from the sounds of the excited whoops coming from the dinner table. He wonders if his mom is taking out her pecan pie thousands of kilometers north, the same pie that he eats way too much of every time and regrets the next day. He still has room in his stomach for now, ready to eat whatever’s coming next-

“Oof. Shit, Toes, you in the way.” 

Jose’s looking up at him and rubbing his nose from where it’s just collided with Brock’s chest. Brock reaches out a hand to steady him because he can’t help it, not really.

“Leaving right as dessert comes?”

Jose shrugs. “When nature calls. There’ll be a shit ton of leftover pie even though Luis gonna eat at least half of it, trust and believe.”

Brock moves to get out of his way, let him continue onwards when Jose holds up a hand, lightly hitting his chest when he tries to walk forward.

“What?”

Jose doesn’t answer right away, only points upwards and Brock looks up past the family pictures on the wall, the crowning molding along the edges of the ceiling and-

Oh.

Mistletoe.

Brock looks back down at Jose and the light in his eyes, the mischief is surely fueled by too much wine, too much stuffing and cranberry sauce, but Brock feels it running through his own veins just the same.

They’re supposed to be acting. Playing a part. So why not fully deliver?

One of his hands tugs on Jose’s belt loops right as Jose steps forward. and the way their bodies collide, fitting together perfectly, nearly takes the breath right out of Brock’s lungs.

Jose’s lips are soft, still taste the same (the light hint of eucalyptus from his lip balm, just like always) mixed with the wine that he’s been sipping on and Brock can’t get enough of it. His hands cup Jose’s face like they know how to do, like they’re used to doing and the way that Jose stands up on his tiptoes is like second nature. 

But then Tia Carla shuffles past them, muttering about how Jose’s grandma _ ‘won’t take out the good spoons for dessert, why not’ _ and they pull back with a jump, the tingling on Brock’s lips and the wideness of Jose’s eyes the only indicators that they still fit together like they should, like they always have.

Jose runs a hand through his hair, the rare shyness a sight that always tugs at Brock’s heart, Jose’s shifty eyes when he’s feeling self conscious somehow only ever reserved for him. Brock loves this side of Jose, the one that hides underneath his drag persona and is soft and vulnerable and open to new things - as well as things that are not so new. 

But then Jose takes a step back, deliberately putting space between them, and Brock can feel his heart plummet within his chest. Jose’s eyes shift downwards, no longer able to meet Brock’s own, and his hands idly slip into the back pockets of his jeans as he rocks backwards on his heels.

This isn’t a good sign, and Brock knows it. 

It’s the way Jose always acts when he’s about to deliver bad news, only this time it feels like his bad news is being accompanied by a sucker punch to Brock’s gut. Before Jose even opens his mouth to speak, Brock knows what he’s going to say.

“We gotta talk about this.”

It’s a change from Jose’s demeanor just moments ago, when he’d seemed so at ease and then kissed Brock like he was the missing puzzle piece in his life.. But now Jose’s looking at him, really looking at him and Brock can sense it, he really can, that things have changed.

“A little bit impossible with your mom and uncle pulling apart Christmas crackers, yeah?” Brock’s meek attempt at lightening the mood is punctuated by a _ crack _and yells of laughter from the kitchen, and Jose pursing his lips in response as he shakes his head.

“Later, then. We ain’t leaving this business unfinished.” Jose’s eyes glint with a bit of a challenge, a dare for Brock to contest him, to argue.

But Brock’s on the same wavelength, the way that they always used to be. 

“We’ll talk later. Promise.” There’s so much to talk about, so much that Brock needs to unpack with Jose but it doesn’t have to happen right away, not now when they both need to head back to the dinner table. Not when Jose’s extended family is on the other side of the wall and in range of listening.

They’ll have the time. 

They nod at each other once before parting ways again, the unspoken understanding hanging between them that once they retire to their room for the night, they’ll have the talk they’ve been avoiding. And just that fact fills Brock with hope. Though he tries not to let it show, he has hope that this time around they can make things work, has hope that this trip doesn’t have to end badly.

But then again, he’s never really been one to rely too heavily on hope alone.

* * *

Dessert flies by faster than Brock wants it to, his anxiety about speaking with Jose later gradually building as the seconds tick by on the clock. Every time Jose lets out a screeching laugh and places a hand on Brock’s arm, Brock has to battle against every instinct in his body to spring away out of self-preservation. But they still have an act to put on, one that Jose’s family needs to believe. So instead, Brock leans into his touches, no matter how much his brain wants him to do the opposite. 

The walk down the hall after dinner gives Brock the same feeling of impending doom as he felt walking on stage during the finale, his stomach twisting into knots that he doesn’t have time to undo. He tries to focus on the pictures hanging on the walls, the extended family portraits, school pictures, the prom and graduation pictures for Jose and each of his siblings. His gaze doesn’t linger on any of the photos for too long, moving quickly between them, but there’s no missing Jose’s beaming smile in each image. He wishes that he could listen to Annabel tell him the stories behind each photo on the wall, going on and on about what Jose used to be like when he was younger. But without the stories to give context, the pictures don’t do much to distract him from his growing nerves.

Jose shuts the door behind Brock, and a heavy silence falls all too suddenly over the room. Brock’s mind feels like it’s misfiring as he desperately tries to come up with something, _ anything _ to say to cut through the tension that threatens to suffocate him.

Jose, meanwhile, is leaning against the wall beside the door, arms crossed over his chest and a blank expression on his face. It’s a stance that Brock knows all too well - one that means that Jose is building his walls up, bracing for impact. Bracing for conflict. Getting ready to go off. But he’d always been a bystander in those instances, never having to face Jose head-on in an argument before. 

“Cuddling in bed, kissing under the damn mistletoe - what are we doing, B?” The confusion is evident in Jose’s voice, breaking the silence and opening up the floodgates that they’ve been keeping up for so long. 

Brock can feel the way his own brow is furrowing, because what does Jose mean, _ what are we doing? _

“I can’t do this. You can’t keep mixing your damn signals.” Jose continues on, and Brock scoffs.

_"I'm_ sending mixed signals?” Brock can feel his eyes widen as he attempts to make eye contact with Jose, who’s conveniently focusing his gaze on the dresser beside him. “You’re the one who initiated the cuddling _ and _the kiss, Jose. If anyone is sending mixed signals, it’s you.” 

The words come out more forceful than Brock intends them to, but his tone of voice is the last thing on his mind at the moment. Brock can’t wrap his mind around the fact that Jose, the one who came up with the entire scheme like it was nothing, roped Brock into it with a pleading pout and puppy eyes, who kept it going like he believed it, thinks that _ he’s _the one sending mixed signals.

Brock’s been perfectly clear on his role in things this entire trip - he’s just here to help Jose get through the holidays without being interrogated by his relatives. He didn’t expect anything else to happen.

Maybe Brock should have known better. He and Jose are two reactive chemicals, ones that work oh-so-well together but remain unstable and privy to blowing up at any moment. It’s something that’s visible to everyone around them, and why their friends keep making jokes about them hooking up or getting back together. 

Right now, though? Brock doesn’t know if getting back together with Jose is even a realistic possibility. Not when they’re not even close to being on the same page.

“It’s-you-God fucking _ dammit, _Brock.” Jose takes a deep breath in, cutting off his spluttering as he takes a step closer, his chest rising and falling sharply with every moment he takes to collect himself. “I just can’t do this fakin’, okay? It’s like--It’s like one minute we’re in love again, and the next minute, I remember it’s all just a stupid game.” 

The words hit Brock in the chest like a foot kicking him down, down into a pool of ice, the words echoing in his mind and making his blood run cold.

_ It’s all just a stupid game. _

Except it’s not just a game - it never has been, between him and Jose. Because if it were, then Brock would have given up a long time ago, let Jose win and take home the prize. Only there is no prize, only two players, a field, and rules they still can’t figure out.

“You’re not a game to me, Jose, and you fucking know that.” Brock wants his voice to come out strong, decisive, but it doesn’t, instead only escaping in a dry whisper. “You told me to act like we’re still together, and that’s what I’ve been trying to do for you.” 

Because Brock _ has, _he’s been trying to ignore the tug in his heart and the way it pulls a little every time he sees Jose smile. He takes a deep breath but continues, because he has to, even if his voice is going to break at any moment. “Don’t you realize this hurts me just as much as it hurts you?” 

It’s like the words make Jose pause, his eyes searching Brock’s face for some sort of answer that he doesn’t know how to give him, though Brock wishes that he could. 

“Is this really hurting you?” 

The question comes out soft from Jose’s mouth - like the times when things were easier gentler. But it ebbs away at Brock’s anger, melting the ice that builds up around him every time his heart feels the need to speed up. 

Brock simply nods in response. How can he explain the last couple days, what this proximity to Jose does to him? Not that it’s been all bad. But that’s what makes it so confusing for Brock’s Jose-addled brain. 

Because he doesn’t know what to feel.

“I never meant to hurt you.” Jose mumbles, not quite able to meet Brock’s eyes, and Brock reaches over, almost touches him, almost grabs his hand, then sighs, folding his hands in his lap instead. 

“I know.” Brock nods. “And it’s okay.” 

Jose looks up at him for a moment, his eyes wide with equal parts gratitude and shock, and Brock musters up all the courage he can before continuing, each word measured as he speaks. 

“We need to figure something out. We can’t keep messing each other up like this.” It’s exactly what they’re doing, pretending to be together with so many unspoken words between them. So many expectations but also so much bracing for letdowns, for failure. It’s as if Brock doesn’t know what to expect, what to do - and now he knows that Jose feels the same way too.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling, it really is, but somehow, the knowledge that they’re in it together provides a small kind of comfort. 

“We gotta tell ‘em, don’t we?” Jose sounds defeated when he breaks the silence, kicking one foot back and forth absentmindedly from his spot against the wall. 

“Yeah. We gotta tell them.” Brock says the words softly, watching as Jose does his best to keep his face from falling, his eyes from dimming, from losing the playful sparkle that had just appeared mere seconds prior. 

Brock takes a step forward, finally, _ finally _threads his fingers in Jose’s hand, feels how well their hands still fit together, even after all this time, all this uncertainty. And Jose lets him. 

“I miss you, Toes.” Jose looks at Brock with tears in his eyes, his voice raw with honesty, and fuck, Brock almost tears up too. But he can’t - not while they’re here like this, talking like this, have so much to consider before they can finish and take the next step in whatever plan they’re currently making. “I-I ain’t even know what it means, honestly, I just do.”

“I miss you too.” The words fall from his lips easily, because they’re true. But they’re not the only important thing for Brock to consider, for both of them to consider. “And I don’t know what it means either.”

“Maybe it means we could try again?”

Brock’s chest lurches, his heart speeding up and screeching to a stop all at once. 

Try again? 

The suggestion feels like it’s something that’s been all too inevitable, something they both knew was going to come up the minute they came up with their scheme. Still, the fact that it’s actually happening, actually out in the air, is somehow overwhelming.

Not that it’s unwelcome. But Brock knows that that’s besides the point.

“I’m not opposed to it.” Brock starts, and it breaks his heart how Jose’s grip on his hand loosens a little, even though it doesn’t drop completely, because he knows that it means that Jose knows what’s about to happen. What’s about to be said. But he has to say it anyway, no matter how much it hurts him, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. They both know it. Both count on it.

“I just think we need a little time to breathe, that’s all. Some time to really, _ really _ think about what we actually want. Not the slap-dash hooking up, not letting our feelings get the best of us any more. ‘Cause that really hasn’t worked, and if we’re going to try something…then I want to make sure we have a real shot.”

“Yeah.” Jose’s face isn’t reflecting pain, or sadness, or anger. Instead, the twinkle in his eyes expresses something like hope. Which means that he gets it, that he understands why they should wait. Why they should have some space and talk about it before doing anything stupid. 

Which means that they’re on the same page again, and Brock can finally breathe. 

They _ both _ can. 

“Should we go tell ‘em now?” Jose pushes off from his spot against the wall as he speaks, rocking on his heels. 

“Yeah, probably. The sooner, the better.” Brock nods his head in agreement, lets out a nervous sigh as he goes to open the door.

Jose reaches out to grab one of his hands, gives it a light squeeze, the way he always used to before the runways during filming. Jose is nervous too, Brock can tell, from the way he’s biting his lip, and so Brock squeezes his hand back, his heart turning at the way Jose’s lips curl up into a small, bittersweet smile.

“Besides,” Jose drops Brock’s hand as they step out into the hallway together, “They gonna be a hell of a lot more mad at me than at you.”


End file.
